“No!”
“But, Christopher, I don’t understand: Why are birds different?”
“They have to be streamlined in order to fly.”
It was another of those puzzlements, and he had the answers. I just knew the brain of brains had the answers.
“All right, but why are male birds made the way they are? And leave out the streamlined part.”
He floundered, his face turned deeply red, and he sought a way to say something delicately. “Male birds can be aroused, and that makes what is in, come out.”
“How are they aroused?”
“Shut up and read your book—and let me read mine!”
* * *
Some days were too chilly for sunbathing. Then it grew frigid, so even wearing our heaviest and warmest clothes, we still shivered unless we ran. Too soon the morning sun stole away from the east, leaving us desolate and wishing there were windows on the southern side. But the windows were shuttered over and locked.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Momma, “the morning sun is the healthiest.”
Words that didn’t cheer us, since our plants were dying one by one while living in the healthiest sunlight of all.
As November began, the attic began to turn Arctic cold. Our teeth chattered, our noses ran, we sneezed often and complained to Momma that we needed a stove with a chimney, since the two stoves in the schoolroom had been disconnected. Momma spoke of bringing up an electric or gas heater. But she feared an electric stove might start a fire if connected to many extension cords. And a chimney was also needed for a gas heater.
She brought us long heavy underwear, and thick ski jackets with attached hoods, and bright ski pants with wool fleece lining. Wearing these clothes, we went daily into the attic where we could run free and escape the grandmother’s ever observant eyes.
* * *
In our cluttered bedroom we barely had room to walk without colliding into something to bruise our shins. In the attic we went frantic, screaming as we chased one another: hiding, finding, putting on small plays with frenzied activity. We fought sometimes, argued, cried, then went back to fierce play. We had a passion for hide and seek. Chris and I enjoyed making this game terribly threatening but only mildly so for the twins, who were already terrified enough of the many “bad things” that lingered in the dark attic shadows. Carrie earnestly said she saw monsters hiding behind the shrouded furniture.
One day, we were up in the attic polar zone, and searching to find Cory. “I’m going downstairs,” said Carrie, her small face resentful, her lips pouted. No good to try and make her stay and exercise—she was too stubborn. She sashayed off in her little red ski outfit, leaving me and Chris to hunt around to find Cory. Customarily, he was just too easy to find. His way was to choose the last place Chris had hidden. So it was our belief we could go straight to the third massive armoire and there would be Cory, crouched down on the floor, hiding under the old clothes, and grinning up at us. We indulged him, avoiding this particular wardrobe for a specific length of time. Then we decided to “find” him. And lo, when we looked—he wasn’t there!
“Well, I’ll be damned!” exclaimed Chris. “He’s finally going to be innovative and find an original place to hide.”
That’s what came of reading so many books. Big words stuck to his brains. I swiped at my leaky nose, and then took another look around. If truly innovative, there were a million good hiding places in this multi-winged attic. Why, it might take us hours and hours to find Cory. And I was cold, tired and irritable, sick of playing this game Chris insisted on daily to keep us active.
“Cory!” I yelled. “Come out from wherever you are! It’s time to eat lunch!” Now, that should bring him. Meals were a cozy and homey thing to do, and they broke up our long days into separate portions.
Still, he didn’t answer. I flashed angry eyes at Chris. “Peanut-butter-and-grape-jelly sandwiches,” I added. Cory’s favorite meal, which should bring him running. Still, not a sound, not a cry, nothing.
Suddenly I was scared. I couldn’t believe Cory had overcome his fear of the immense, shadowy attic, and was at last taking the game seriously—but just suppose he was trying to imitate Chris or me? Oh, God! “Chris!” I cried. “We’ve got to find Cory, and fast!”
He caught my panic, and whirled about to run, crying out Cory’s name, ordering him to come out, stop hiding! Both of us ran and hunted, calling Cory repeatedly. Hide-and-seek-time was over—lunchtime now! No answer, and I was nearly freezing, despite all my clothes. Even my hands looked blue.
“Oh, my God,” murmured Chris, pulling up short, “just suppose he hid in one of the trunks, and the lid came down and accidently latched?”
Cory would suffocate. He’d die!
Like crazy we ran and looked, throwing open the lids of every old trunk. We tossed out pantaloons, shifts, camisoles, petticoats, stays, suits, all with insane, distressed terror. And while I ran and searched, I prayed over and over again for God not to let Cory die.
“Cathy, I’ve found him!” shouted Chris. I spun around to see Chris lifting Cory’s small, inert form from a trunk that had latched and kept him inside. Weak with relief, I stumbled over and kissed Cory’s small, pale face, turned a funny color from lack of oxygen. His slitted eyes were unfocused. He was very nearly unconscious. “Momma,” he whispered, “I want my momma.”
But Momma was miles away, learning how to type and take shorthand. There was only a pitiless grandmother we didn’t know how to reach in an emergency.
“Run quick and fill the bathtub with hot water,” said Chris, “but not too hot. We don’t want to scald him.” Then he was racing with Cory in his arms toward the stairwell.
I reached the bedroom first, then sped on toward the bath. I glanced backward to see Chris lay Cory down on his bed. Then he bent above, held Cory’s nostrils, and then Chris lowered his head until his mouth covered Cory’s blue lips, which were spread apart. My heart jumped! Was he dead? Had he stopped breathing?
Carrie took one glance at what was going on—her small twin blue and not moving—and she began to scream.
In the bathroom I turned on both faucets as far as they would go; full blast they gushed. Cory was going to die! Always I was dreaming of death and dying . . . and most of the times my dreams came true! And as always, just when I thought God had turned his back on us and didn’t care, I whirled to grab hold of my faith, and prayed, demanding Him not to let Cory die . . . please God, please God, please, please, please . . .”
Maybe my desperate prayers did as much to help Cory back to life as the artificial resuscitation Chris performed.
“He’s breathing again,” said Chris, pale-faced and trembling as he carried Cory to the tub. “Now all we have to do is warm him up.”
In no time at all we had Cory undressed and in the tub of warm water.
“Momma,” whispered Cory as he came to, “I want Momma.” Over and over again he kept saying it, and I could have pounded my fists through the walls it was so damned unfair! He should have his mother, and not just a pretend mother who didn’t know what to do. I wanted out of this, even if I had to beg in the streets!
But I said in a calm way that made Chris lift his head and smile at me with approval, “Why can’t you pretend I’m Momma? I’ll do everything for you that she would. I’ll hold you on my lap, and rock you to sleep while I sing you a lullaby, just as soon as you eat a little lunch, and drink some milk.”
Both Chris and I were kneeling as I said this. He was massaging Cory’s small feet, while I rubbed his cold hands and made them warm again. When his flesh was colored normally again, we dried Cory off, put on his warmest pajamas, wrapped him in a blanket, and, in the old rocker Chris had brought down from the attic, I sat down and cuddled my small brother on my lap. I covered his wan face with kisses, and whispered sweet nothings in his ear that made him giggle.
If he could laugh, he could eat, and I fed him tiny bits of sandwich, and gave him sips of lukewarm soup, and long drinks of mi
lk. And as I did this, I grew older. Ten years I aged in ten minutes. I glanced over at Chris as he sat down to eat his lunch, and saw that he, too, had changed. Now we knew there was real danger in the attic beyond that of slow withering from lack of sunlight and fresh air. We all faced threats much worse than the mice and spiders that insisted on living, despite all we did to kill every last one.
All alone Chris stalked up the narrow, steep stairs to the attic, his face grim as he entered the closet. I rocked on and on, holding both Carrie and Cory on my lap, and singing “Rock-a-bye, Baby.” Suddenly there was a fierce hammering coming from above, a terrible clamor the servants might hear.
“Cathy,” said Cory in a small whisper while Carrie nodded off into sleep, “I don’t like not having a momma anymore.”
“You do have a momma—you have me.”
“Are you as good as a real momma?”
“Yes, I think I am. I love you very much, Cory, and that’s what makes a real mother.”
Cory stared up at me with wide blue eyes, to see if I was sincere, or if I were only mocking his need. Then his small arms crept up around my neck, and he cuddled his head on my shoulder. “I’m so sleepy, Momma, but don’t stop singing.”
I was still rocking, still singing softly, when Chris came back wearing a satisfied expression. “Never again will a trunk lock inadvertently,” he said, “for I smashed every last lock and the wardrobes, now they won’t lock, either!”
I nodded.
He sat on the nearest bed and watched the slow rhythm of the rocking chair, listening to the childish tune I kept right on singing. A slow flush heated his face so he seemed embarrassed. “I feel so left out, Cathy. Would it be all right if I sat in the rocker first, and then the three of you piled on?”
Daddy used to do that. He’d hold all of us on his lap, even Momma. His arms had been long enough, and strong enough, to embrace us all, and give us the nicest, warmest feeling of security and love. I wondered if Chris could do the same.
As we sat in the rocker with Chris underneath, I caught a glimpse of us in the dresser mirror across the way. An eerie feeling stole over me, making all of this seem so unreal. He and I looked like doll parents, younger editions of Momma and Daddy.
“The Bible says there is a time for everything,” whispered Chris so as not to awaken the twins, “a time to be born, a time to plant, a time to harvest, a time to die, and so on, and this is our time to sacrifice. Later on will come our time to live and enjoy.”
I turned my head and nestled it down on his boyish shoulder, grateful he was always so optimistic, always so cheerful. It felt good to have his strong young arms about me—almost as protective and good as Daddy’s arms had been.
Chris was right, too. Our happy time would come the day we left this room and went downstairs to attend a funeral.
Holidays
On the tall stalk of the amaryllis a single bud appeared—a living calendar to remind us that Thanksgiving and Christmas were drawing nigh. It was our only plant alive now, and it was, by far, our most cherished possession. We carried it down from the attic to spend warm nights with us in the bedroom. Up first every morning, Cory rushed to see the bud, wanting to know if it had survived the night. Then Carrie would shortly follow him, to stand close at his side and admire a hardy plant, valiant, victorious, where others had failed. They checked the wall calendar to see if a day was encircled with green, indicating the plant needed to be fertilized. They felt the dirt to see if it needed water. They never trusted their own judgment, but would come to me and ask, “Should we give Amaryllis water? Do you think she’s thirsty?”
We never owned anything, inanimate or alive, that we didn’t name, and Amaryllis was determined to live. Neither Cory nor Carrie would trust their frail strength to carry the heavy pot up to the attic windows, where the sunshine lingered but shortly. I was allowed to carry Amaryllis up, but Chris had to bring her down at night. And each night we took turns marking off a day with a big red X. We now had crossed off one hundred days.
* * *
The cold rains came, the fierce winds blew—sometimes heavy fog shut out the morning sunlight The dry branches of the trees scraped the house at night and woke me up, making me suck in my breath, waiting, waiting, waiting for some horror to come in and eat me up.
On a day when it was pouring rain that might later turn into snow, Momma came breathless into our bedroom, bringing with her a box of pretty party decorations to put on our Thanksgiving Day table and make it festive. She had included a bright yellow tablecloth and orange linen napkins with fringe.
“We’re having guests tomorrow for a midday dinner,” she explained, dumping her box on the bed nearest the door, and already turning to leave. “And two turkeys are being roasted: one for us, one for the servants. But they won’t be ready early enough for your grandmother to put in the picnic basket. Now don’t worry, I’m not allowing my children to live through a Thanksgiving Day without the feast to fit the occasion. Somehow I’ll find a way to slip up some hot food, a little bit of everything we have. I think I’ll make a big to-do about wanting to serve my father myself, and while I’m preparing his tray, I can put food on another tray to bring up to you. Expect to see me about one tomorrow.”
Like the wind through the door, she blew in, blew out, leaving us with happy anticipations of a huge, hot, Thanksgiving Day meal.
Carrie asked, “What’s Thanksgiving?”
Cory answered, “Same as saying grace before meals.”
In a way he was right, I think. And since he’d said something voluntarily, darned if I was going to squelch him by any criticism.
* * *
While Chris cuddled the twins on his lap, sitting in one of the big lounge chairs, and told them of the first Thanksgiving Day so long ago, I bustled about like any hausfrau, very happy to set a festive holiday table. Our place cards were four small turkeys with tails that fanned out to make orange and yellow honeycombed paper plumage. We had two big pumpkin candles to burn, two Pilgrim men, two Pilgrim women, and two Indian candles, but darned if I could light such pretty candles and see them melt down into puddles. I put plain candles on the table to light, and saved the costly candles for other Thanksgiving Day meals when we were out of this place. On our little turkeys, I carefully lettered our names then fanned them open and placed one of them before each plate. Our dining table had a small shelf underneath, and that’s where we kept our dishes and silverware. After each meal I washed them in the bathroom in a pink plastic basin. Chris dried, then stacked the dishes in a rubber rack under the table to await the next meal.
I laid out the silverware most carefully, forks to the left, the knives to the right, blades facing the plates, and next to the knives, the spoons. Our china was Lenox with a wide blue rim, and edged in twenty-four-karat gold—all that was written on the back. Momma had already told me this was old dinnerware that the servants wouldn’t miss. Our crystal today was footed, and I couldn’t help but stand back to admire my own artistry. The only thing missing was flowers. Momma should have remembered to bring flowers.
One o’clock came and went. Carrie complained loudly. “Let’s eat our lunch now, Cathy!”
“Be patient. Momma is bringing us special hot food, turkey and all the fixings—and this will be dinner, not lunch.” My housewifely chores done for a while, I curled up happily on the bed to read more of Lorna Doone.
“Cathy, my stomach don’t have patience,” said Cory now, bringing me back from the mid-seventeenth century. Chris was deep into some Sherlock Holmes mystery that would be solved fast on the last page. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the twins could calm their stomachs, capacity about two ounces, by reading as Chris and I did?
“Eat a couple of raisins, Cory.”
“Don’t have no more.”
“The correct way to say that is: I don’t have anymore, or there aren’t anymore.”
“Don’t have no more, honest.”
“Eat a peanut.”
“Peanuts are a
ll gone—did I say that right?”
“Yes,” I sighed. “Eat a cracker.”
“Carrie ate the last cracker.”
“Carrie, why didn’t you share those crackers with your brother?”
“He didn’t want none then.”
Two o’clock. Now all of us were starving. We had trained our stomachs to eat at twelve o’clock sharp. Whatever was keeping Momma? Was she going to eat first herself, and then bring us our food? She hadn’t told it that way.
A little after three o’clock, Momma rushed in, bearing a huge silver tray laden with covered dishes. She wore a dress of periwinkle-blue wool jersey, and her hair was waved back from her face and caught low at the nape of her neck with a silver barrette. Boy, did she look pretty!
“I know you’re starving,” she immediately began to apologize, “but my father changed his mind and decided at the last minute to use his wheelchair and eat with the rest of us.” She threw us a harried smile. “Your table-setting is lovely, Cathy. You did everything just right. I’m sorry I forgot the flowers. I shouldn’t have forgotten. We have nine guests, all busy talking to me, and asking a thousand questions about where I was for so long, and you just don’t know the trouble I had slipping into the butler’s pantry when John wasn’t looking—that man has eyes in back of his head. And you never saw anyone hop up and down as much as I did; the guests must have thought I was very impolite, or just plain foolish—but I did manage to fill your dishes, and hide them away, then back to the dining table I’d dash, and smile, and eat a bite before I had to get up again to blow my nose in another room. I answered three telephone calls that I made to myself from the private line in my bedroom. I had to disguise my voice so no one would guess, and I really did want to bring you slices of pumpkin pie, but John had it sliced and already put on the dessert plates, so what could I do? He’d have noticed four missing pieces.”
She blew us a kiss, bestowed a dazzling, but hurried smile, and disappeared out the door.
Good-golly day! We sure did complicate her life, all right!
The Flowers in the Attic Series: The Dollangangers: Flowers in the Attic, Petals on the Wind, If There Be Thorns, Seeds of Yesterday, and a New Excerpt! Page 16
